Gwendolyn Brooks was born on June 17th, 1917 in Topeka, Kansas. After, her family moved to Chicago, Illinois at the age of six. Ever since she was young her parents encouraged her to read and write. Ever since Gwendolyn was thirteen she has had her poetry published. By the time she was sixteen she had about seventy-five poems published. Throughout the rest of her life Gwendolyn has wrote over twenty poetry books and won many awards. One of her most notable awards is American Pulitzer Prize which she won in 1950. She was the first African-American to receive this award. Also, she was appointed Poet Laureate of Illinois in 1968. Gwendolyn Brooks made a huge impact on her community and on people outside of her community. Many things have been named after her. Including the Gwendolyn Brooks Cultural Center, Gwendolyn Brooks Elementary, and the Gwendolyn Brooks Illinois State Library. Sadly, on December 3rd, 2000 Gwendolyn Brooks died at the age of 83. To this day, many people still continue read Gwendolyn's poetry.
A Sunset of the City Already I am no longer looked at with lechery or love. My daughters and sons have put me away with marbles and dolls, Are gone from the house. My husband and lovers are pleasant or somewhat polite And night is night.
It is a real chill out, The genuine thing. I am not deceived, I do not think it is still summer Because sun stays and birds continue to sing.
It is summer-gone that I see, it is summer-gone. The sweet flowers indrying and dying down, The grasses forgetting their blaze and consenting to brown.
It is a real chill out. The fall crisp comes I am aware there is winter to heed. There is no warm house That is fitted with my need.
I am cold in this cold house this house Whose washed echoes are tremulous down lost halls. I am a woman, and dusty, standing among new affairs. I am a woman who hurries through her prayers.
Tin intimations of a quiet core to be my Desert and my dear relief Come: there shall be such islanding from grief, And small communion with the master shore. Twang they. And I incline this ear to tin, Consult a dual dilemma. Whether to dry In humming pallor or to leap and die.
Somebody muffed it?? Somebody wanted to joke Garbageman: The Man With The Orderly Mind What do you think of us in fuzzy endeavor, you whose directions are
sterling, whose lunge is straight?
Can you make a reason, how can you pardon us who memorize the rules and never score?
Who memorize the rules from your own text but never quite transfer them to the game,
Who never quite receive the whistling ball, who gawk, begin to absorb the crowd's own roar.
Is earnest enough, may earnest attract or lead to light;
Is light enough, if hands in clumsy frenzy, flimsy whimsically, enlist;
Is light enough when this bewilderment crying against the dark shuts down the shades?
Dilute confusion. Find and explode our mist. The Bean Eaters They eat beans mostly, this old yellow pair. Dinner is a casual affair. Plain chipware on a plain and creaking wood, Tin flatware.
Two who are Mostly Good. Two who have lived their day, But keep on putting on their clothes And putting things away.
And remembering . . . Remembering, with twinklings and twinges, As they lean over the beans in their rented back room that is full of beads and receipts and dolls and cloths, tobacco crumbs, vases and fringes.
Gwendolyn Brooks
June 7th 1917- December 3rd 2000
Gwendolyn Brooks was born on June 17th, 1917 in Topeka, Kansas. After, her family moved to Chicago, Illinois at the age of six. Ever since she was young her parents encouraged her to read and write. Ever since Gwendolyn was thirteen she has had her poetry published. By the time she was sixteen she had about seventy-five poems published. Throughout the rest of her life Gwendolyn has wrote over twenty poetry books and won many awards. One of her most notable awards is American Pulitzer Prize which she won in 1950. She was the first African-American to receive this award. Also, she was appointed Poet Laureate of Illinois in 1968. Gwendolyn Brooks made a huge impact on her community and on people outside of her community. Many things have been named after her. Including the Gwendolyn Brooks Cultural Center, Gwendolyn Brooks Elementary, and the Gwendolyn Brooks Illinois State Library. Sadly, on December 3rd, 2000 Gwendolyn Brooks died at the age of 83. To this day, many people still continue read Gwendolyn's poetry.
A Sunset of the City
Already I am no longer looked at with lechery or love.
My daughters and sons have put me away with marbles and dolls,
Are gone from the house.
My husband and lovers are pleasant or somewhat polite
And night is night.
It is a real chill out,
The genuine thing.
I am not deceived, I do not think it is still summer
Because sun stays and birds continue to sing.
It is summer-gone that I see, it is summer-gone.
The sweet flowers indrying and dying down,
The grasses forgetting their blaze and consenting to brown.
It is a real chill out. The fall crisp comes
I am aware there is winter to heed.
There is no warm house
That is fitted with my need.
I am cold in this cold house this house
Whose washed echoes are tremulous down lost halls.
I am a woman, and dusty, standing among new affairs.
I am a woman who hurries through her prayers.
Tin intimations of a quiet core to be my
Desert and my dear relief
Come: there shall be such islanding from grief,
And small communion with the master shore.
Twang they. And I incline this ear to tin,
Consult a dual dilemma. Whether to dry
In humming pallor or to leap and die.
Somebody muffed it?? Somebody wanted to joke
Garbageman: The Man With The Orderly Mind What do you think of us in fuzzy endeavor, you whose directions are
sterling, whose lunge is straight?
Can you make a reason, how can you pardon us who memorize the rules and never score?
Who memorize the rules from your own text but never quite transfer them to the game,
Who never quite receive the whistling ball, who gawk, begin to absorb the crowd's own roar.
Is earnest enough, may earnest attract or lead to light;
Is light enough, if hands in clumsy frenzy, flimsy whimsically, enlist;
Is light enough when this bewilderment crying against the dark shuts down the shades?
Dilute confusion. Find and explode our mist.
The Bean Eaters They eat beans mostly, this old yellow pair.
Dinner is a casual affair.
Plain chipware on a plain and creaking wood,
Tin flatware.
Two who are Mostly Good.
Two who have lived their day,
But keep on putting on their clothes
And putting things away.
And remembering . . .
Remembering, with twinklings and twinges,
As they lean over the beans in their rented back room that
is full of beads and receipts and dolls and cloths,
tobacco crumbs, vases and fringes.